HER:
See, that's what you must tell me first. You can take bus, taxi, or train.
Taxi's more expensive, so I suggest bus or train.

ME (pointing left down the terminal): OK,
and for those I go this way?

HER
(smiling): I've given you three
options.

ME (biting tongue harder): Indeed you have. Danke schön.

5. To
me, Christmastime is made for the big city. The crispy cold air, the visible
breath, all the lights and decorations, all the pedestrians, all the coats and
hats and scarves and gloves, all the shopping bags, the elaborate window
displays – it just fits. Add to that Munich's legendary Christmas Markets, with
countless stands selling punsch and glühwein and bratwurst and
crepes, and you have what I consider a very particular type of heaven.

6. German
beer is everything it’s cracked up to be, as is another drink I discovered
there, “hot gingerbreadmilk.” Holy wow.

7. I
marvel that so many people in Munich – and, I assume, many other big cities
outside the USA and UK – speak English so well. More than marvel, actually: I'm
envious. I want to speak German as well as they speak English, and I intend to.
On principle, I think it's an excellent idea to at least try and learn a bit of
the local language before traveling to another country. It can help you
navigate the locale, it’s good for your brain, and it's courteous, showing, if
nothing else, that you don't expect everyone else to bend to your linguistic
will. On that note, I’ve been using the duoLingo app to learn German. I’ve
learned some basics, but, like most entry-level tutorials, the app’s examples
are less-than useful in real intercontinental conversation. The greatest of
these examples, and the one I most fervently tried to work into conversation
while in Germany, popped up in the app about a week before I left: Meine Ente trinkt Wasser, or “My duck
drinks water.” I did, in fact, manage to work this into a conversation, but the
conversation consisted of my saying how badly I wanted to work Meine Ente trinkt Wasser into a
conversation (much to the puzzled delight of my German friends).

8. Downtown
Munich has a five-story department store called Karstadt, and I think I could
have spent my whole week in there, especially the toy department, which
reminded me of Gimbels from the movie Elf.
It also has a very cozy bar/restaurant on the top floor.

9. I
took a day-long sightseeing tour of Linderhof Palace and Neuschwanstein Castle,
the latter of which inspired Disney’s signature castle. Both were shrouded in
mist during our visit but still stunning. Also on the tour was the village of
Oberammergau, famous for performing a Passion Play regularly since 1634 (first
yearly, then decennially; the next one occurs in 2020).

10. A
notice in my hotel bathroom informed me that “Munich water from the tab [sic]”
comes from the Alps and that I “may enjoy it without regret.” Good to know.

11. If
you've seen Apocalypse Now, you might
remember the early meal scene where Willard is offered an intimidating-looking
plate and is told, “I don't know how you feel about this shrimp, but if you eat
it, you’ll never have to prove your courage in any other way.” That’s exactly
how I feel about the pickled herring I tried at breakfast one morning. It’s
entirely possible I'll never put anything that foul into my mouth again.

12. Fistbumps
to the dudes drinking lager at 8:10 a.m. in the Munich airport.

13. Fistbumps
as well to the bag-check guy who decided on his own not to charge me for my bag
being 1.5kg overweight because said overage would have cost me 81 Euros ($99.57
at this writing). “I mean,” he said while pointing to the scale readout, “that
clearly says 23kg, right?” “Right,” I replied.

10.24.2014

Here's a morbid little soap opera for ya. I wrote it sometime in the early 90's but I think it still has some creepiness. And if it doesn't, at least this one's really short! I did some slight touch-up, but mostly I left it alone.

For more horror stories, check the last one I put up for a handy table-of-contents. We have kind of a nice lil' anthology going on here.

And remember, writing is like music -- feedback always helps!

====================

Shrouded In Rain

The sky
rumbled like a hungry gut, fulfilling the prophecies made by the red
warnings crawling along the bottom of the television screen. Andy would be back in the garden again, very
soon.

“Where are you
going?”

“Nowhere,”
Clare told her mother as she left the light of the television and hurried away
into the shadowy back rooms. Thunder
throbbed in the attic, palsy in the bones of the house.

“You’re going
to miss the end of the show,” her mother called, as if Clare really gave a damn. Those afternoon talk shows were her mother’s
thing, not Clare’s; mother thrived on all their dysfunction, their shouting
matches, their provocations. The woman
was a conflict-junkie, and if the secondhand variety she got from the
television wasn’t potent enough, she’d invent arguments with whoever was
around. And since she’d separated from
Stephen and moved back home several months ago, that was usually Clare.

But the worst
part of being back here was that now Andy knew where to find her again.

She went out
through the kitchen to the back porch and sat down in the rocking chair there,
curling her fingers around the ends of its arms, gripping hard, as if trying to
squeeze juice from the dead wood. She’d
need to be anchored, so she wouldn’t bolt when the rain got strong enough to
call Andy up. Right there, in the corner
of the garden, naked and shivering in the rain, his eyes fevered and pleading,
right there where the bushes had gone untrimmed and were being strangled by
honeysuckle; that’s where he’d be. And
he was the last thing Clare wanted to see -- the sight would bring her fear
that pushed toward seizure, teased at death –
but Andy would come with the rain as always. Knowing that he was waiting in the back
garden would be even worse if she didn’t see him.

Besides, she
needed to watch him. If she
didn’t, he might come into the house searching for her, and she didn’t know
what he might do. Andy had been a gentle
person when he was alive, but now he was dead, and that could change
things. He might bear her a grudge.

Clare only
assumed that Andy was dead, of course, but she wasn’t the only one. His body had never been found, but he’d been
missing long enough that the county
agencies listed him as dead, or at least dead with a modifier, “legally dead”
or “presumed dead” or something like that.
In any case, Andy wasn’t dead enough, because he’d be here in a few
minutes. If he was legally dead, then he
should be arrested for being illegally alive.
She’d call the cops, but they’d take her away, not Andy, saying she was
crazy, because Andy couldn’t come back.
His mortal remains were probably mired at the bottom of the Tombigbee
River somewhere, asleep in the mud and wearing a cinderblock necklace, rot long
finished polishing the bones. Andy had
mentioned throwing himself off a bridge once in a sad moment, jokingly saying
he’d always wanted to die an “Ode To Billy Joe” death, so Clare had always
supposed that’s what he’d done those six years ago when he’d run away through
the rain.

When she’d sent
him off to die.

“I didn’t,”
Clare whispered, but it didn’t sound true, not now that the rain was beginning
to fall around her hard enough to mask footsteps. So she said it again, a little louder. She couldn’t have killed Andy, and so what if
she did; he’d been killing her back ever since, six years of poison on
poison. She’d died a lot when Andy left,
died more because she’d never really been able to love Stephen (and that was
Andy’s fault, too, because she’d never gotten over him) and hadn’t been able to
make the marriage work. And now her
mother was grinding away at whatever ashes of life she had left, sucking them
dry.

God, she hated
it here, and more than that, she hated that she didn’t have much option to go
anywhere else. She hadn’t been able to
find a job - unmarriable housewife, there’s a resume from hell - and Stephen
was dragging the separation out to spitefully avoid paying alimony, painting
Clare into a corner. And life with her
mother, oh, yeah, that was standing in a corner, all right, a humiliating
little punishment that made her feel five years old again. Bicker, bicker, peck, peck, nag, nag. The little things. The constant unspoken disappointment that
hung between them like a net, strangle-tangle silent death, slow drowning in an ocean of air.

And if Clare
needed any other proof that she’d screwed everything up, Andy - silent death of
a different kind - would soon be here to bring it.

She closed her
eyes and tried to remember that day when Andy left (left, ha, if you can
say a dog leaves when you throw stones at it), but it was six years ago
and she’d been over it so many times that it had become mythic, and she
couldn’t mine the truth out of all the analysis anymore. But she did know that it was her fault, not
his. That was simple enough. She’d broken his heart.

She’d loved
Andy so much that she’d had to ruin it.
She’d given him too much control over her, even though he’d never asked
for it, and that had terrified her.
“Control issues,” her mom’s talk shows would call it. Such a simple label, so convenient and
sanitary. When Andy had proposed marriage
that day, she’d panicked and tried to play it off as a joke, or – worse – an
insult. How dare he even ask such a
thing? How unbelievably silly! He’d
taken it hard, and he’d run off into a thunderstorm just like the one that was
building now, and no one had seen him again.

Except for
Clare, on other, much-later rainy days, when he came back, dead and miserable.

“Well, what
are you out here for?” her mother crowed, just two steps behind her, and
ice flowed through Clare’s veins. She’d
been so wrapped in self-loathing that she’d let Mother sneak up on her. Not good.
One must always have their guard up for mother, if one wanted to
survive. She just stared out at the
garden, refusing to look back. “It’s
going to storm. Didn’t you see the
television? Tornado watch and
everything. You don’t need to be sitting
outside in weather like this. Don’t you
have any sense?”

“No. I don’t have any sense,” Clare hissed.

“Well. I’d say not.
You’ll be sitting outside and a tornado’ll whisk you off to who knows
where. Why do you think the television
warns us of weather like this?”

“Maybe they
just like to meddle in other people’s business.
It’s a popular pastime. Control
issues.” She laughed, a spiteful bark.

Her mother
sniffed hard, swelling up, ready to do battle.
Clare prepared herself so she wouldn’t flinch at the screaming that was
coming. Instead her mother surprised her
and tried silence this time, but that was one weapon she wasn’t skilled with
and finally said, “Well, fine then! Just
stay out there!” The screen door banged
shut, but the porch didn’t creak, so Clare knew without looking that her mother
had gone back inside.

Hopefully
she’d be good and mad, so she’d stay in there.
If she came back out when Andy was here, it’d mean trouble. Andy was a secret, a shame, and even her
mother would know what had happened if she saw him. Clare had always claimed that Andy had just
disappeared, that things had been fine between them prior to his going
missing. But if mother saw him out in
the rain, with his pleading and trembling, she’d know that something had
happened, something that was Clare’s fault.

Clare had seen
Andy three times now, always in a storm like the one he’d run into when he left
that day. A storm had taken him, and now
storms brought him back.

She closed her
eyes and sighed, smelling the rain that was coming down harder now, thick like
silver shrapnel. It drummed all around
her like a spastic army on the march, no rhythm, crazy-hateful. She didn’t want to open her eyes because it
was raining hard now, and Andy would be there.

But if she
didn’t look, maybe he’d sneak across the garden through the rain, and when she
opened her eyes he wouldn’t be way off by the honeysuckle, but right there
just a foot or two in front of her, and she knew her heart would stop.

Red-light
green-light I see Andy she thought,
opening her eyes, and she did see Andy, just barely, a pale shape in the
rain.

She froze,
staring hard, forgetting to breathe.

Was he
closer this time? She didn’t think so, but it was hard to tell
through the darkness and rain and the blowing leaves. She couldn’t even tell that it was him, but
she knew it was. Who else would it be?

Then the lightning
flashed and she saw him clearly. He had
always been thin but now his naked body was sunken into itself, the skin gone
grey. His hair was plastered around his
face like moss on a tombstone, but his eyes and teeth gleamed through the
strands. The eyes, once blue, had dried
a silvery white, like a couple of dimes, and his teeth chattered in a grimace
so strained it was almost a smile.

He barely
looked like Andy anymore, but dying could be hard on a man.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered,
not loud enough. Andy just trembled and
watched and wanted whatever it was that he was wanting. An apology wouldn’t satisfy him, or exorcize
him. She had no right to apologize for
breaking his heart over her own stupid, unjustified fears, anyway. Andy had loved her more than anyone ever had,
and that was his crime. Because the
truth is, she thought, nobody else really loved me, ever. Dad left, and mother made me pay for
that. Stephen hadn’t fought very hard to
keep me, and anyway he was just a substitute for Andy, Andy who was all I ever
had, Andy who I threw away.

He would never have left
me. Here he is, six years dead, and he
still hasn’t left me. He won’t leave me.

And, damn me, I’m more
afraid of him than ever.

The rain let up just a little,
like a rotten curtain blowing aside, and Andy was shyly reaching a hand out,
pulling it back again, shaking. Then the
rain picked up again, harder than ever, and Andy was lost in it like a silent
movie image too faded and scratched to watch anymore.

He’d always been sad - she
supposed that’s what had drawn them to each other - but he’d never been
pitiful. He was now, though. Sad, wet, and wretched. A shame that death brought no peace.

The back door banged open and
Clare’s mother yelled, “Get on back in this house right now! You must be crazy! Look at this rain! The TV says tornadoes!”

Clare gripped the arms of the
chair so hard that she was surprised the wood didn’t explode into
splinters. Mother would see Andy.

“Did you hear what I told
you?”

Was Andy still out there? Maybe mother had scared him off. But, no, she thought she could see him, pale
among the dark weeds.

“Clare? You get in this house! I’m not fooling, now! You mind what I tell you!”

Lightning thrashed the sky and
lit the yard, and there was Andy, shaking in the wind, wet and naked and
obvious. Mother couldn’t have missed
him. He seemed to be doing some kind of
dance of nerves, and his eyes were bright in the lightning. Wet leaves stuck to his skin like
cancer. Didn’t water make dead bodies
rot?

“Did you see...?” Clare asked.

“I saw lightning almost strike
you, sitting out in the storm like a fool!
Now come on in this house!”

Clare sat, smiling. Mother couldn’t see Andy. And mother wanted her back inside not for
Clare’s sake, but because she was lonely and scared and needed the company.

Good. Welcome to the club, mom! And goodbye to you, because I have all the
company I need, right there in the corner of the garden.

“Sometimes I just hate you!”
her mother screamed, slamming the door again, and Clare smiled wider.

She knew now what Andy
wanted. Andy had come back for her, on a
rescue mission. He was less dead than
she.

Laughing, Clare ran out into
the rain. It was cold but inside she was
colder, fear playing games with her even while longing over-rode it, and she
trembled as she ran. The rain blackened
her clothes and glued them to her, and she peeled them off of her skin, tore
them, wanting nothing between her and the rain and Andy.

In front of her, Andy was
running now, and she laughed. Now
you’re scared, all along you were scared, and Clare ducked under
bushes, splashed through puddles, chasing into the blindness of the rain, and
around her the wind was howling now, and it was full of teeth, biting her
skin. Hail, big as eyes, raising welts
that she couldn’t even feel because she was chasing that little pale spot in a
world that was growing darker and darker.

* * *

When Clare’s mother checked
the back porch again fifteen minutes later, the wind was moving the rocking
chair, but Clare was no longer in it.
Instead she was where her mother would always see her when it rained,
even for years after Clare was declared legally dead. Clare was standing, naked and shivering in
the rain, there by the back corner of the garden where the honeysuckle grew.